Years ago on a night like this, close and moist, we ran an urgent errand. A boy was arriving on his own fast schedule. I remember that night as I follow the dog, non-urgently, up the block.

Frogs start up a chorus from the nursery, and seconds later a shower sweeps over the neighborhood.

Somewhere nearby the recycling poachers are rummaging through cans and bottles. Someone whistles.

I restrain the dog from snacking on something unmentionable. We walk uphill and down, double back on our route.

A man and a woman cycle past, silent, working slowly up the street, red light trailing them.

An extension cord. Someone has trailed it out a second-floor window, down the front of an apartment building. It angles across a street, vanishes beneath the hood of a car. Running tomorrow’s juice out there, I guess. Something delightful–the way the electric line is taped down on the sidewalk and pavement against careless strollers and passing cars. I

And back home, arriving on my own slow schedule. Thinking about that night long ago, that urgent errand.